Interludia
by Shelomit
Summary: For officers on leave, galactic and familial dynamics have a tendency to become entwined. A pair of tableaux.
1. I: Punctus contra Punctum

_Interludia.  
_

_I. Punctus contra Punctum._

(Coruscant, _ca_. 3 ABY.)

Tea, thank the Goddess. Yet it was so predictable; nothing Zevulon did surprised him anymore. This was indicative not of a gradual maturation on the part of the son, nor a greater depth of empathy on the part of the father. Instead it attested to the Human psyche's capacity to accept considerable abuse, up to and including a constant state of astonishment.

The fact, for example, that he still could not stay angry with Zev for more than minutes at a time had long since ceased to surprise. Fifteen years prior their record had been fixed at two and three quarters hours; there it would remain. On that memorable occasion—when little Zev had blazoned the sitting-room walls with wobbly reinterpretations of his favorite holovid characters, in permanent marker, just before his father's immediate superior arrived for supper—Maximilian had simmered until the Colonel and his catty wife were safely out the door. Just as he frogmarched the errant child to his room and was inhaling for a dressing-down, Maximillian had found himself fixed with a single soulful Look of Regret. As if by some supernatural means, all anger evaporated. Frogmarching instantly drew to a halt. The scolding was subjected to such severe abbreviation as to be rendered unrecognizable and somehow ended up concluding with a hug, whilst subsequent disciplinary action was limited to an afternoon's forced labor repainting said sitting room walls, and temporary confiscation of all markers found on the boy's person.

Despite the constantly decreasing sincerity and increasing pity found in the signature Look of Regret, most of Zev's high jinks—and their mutual spats—had been variants on the same model. Zevulon misbehaved; Maximilian got mad at him. Zevulon utilized the Look; Maximilian absolved him. Through an efficiency born of long practice, they had shortened this cycle to an average seven standard minutes per iteration. The motions were as familiar to both of them as anything from Basic Training.

Unfortunately, Maximilian's inability to let a family disagreement last the night had never rubbed off on his son.

They did not talk as much these days. In compensation, they had developed a vocabulary of gesture that avoided the painful specificity of speech. Zev's Look had perhaps been its starting point. The boy was the principal innovator of this language, devising ways to express such unsavory sentiments as 'I don't want to talk about this,' 'who gives a damn,' 'any subject but defensive tactics' and—a symbol to which he had of late had frequent recourse—'you disgust me.' Since Zevulon's progress in this tongue far outstripped his own, Maximilian was constantly appending new entries to his personal lexicography. The two most recent gestures exchanged, however, he had long since decrypted.

Stomping away to bed at any hour prior to 2130: 'I hate you.'

An offering of tea the morning after one has stomped away to bed at any hour prior to 2130: 'I apologize.'

The younger Veers reappeared bearing tea-bowls. The long-since-perfected Look of Regret was not long in following.

"Thank you," said the elder. He poured for both of them. It meant: 'I forgive you.' And as he passed a bowl to his son, their fingers brushed longer than was strictly necessary, and that meant: 'Always.'

They had taken six sips each by the time Zev spoke. "I guess I just don't understand how Humans could be any different, fundamentally, from non-Humans."

Oh, Mother Goddess, not again. Frankly, though, this was anything but a surprise.

"I mean, a sentient is a sentient."

Under such circumstances and for all that he loved his son, three weeks of leave spent in this household could seem like an eon. Maximilian was too tired of the game to make another gesture. "I would prefer that we not speak of this. You made your opinions perfectly clear last evening."

They finished their tea in silence.

Maximilian placed his bowl face down on the tea tray and rose. Zevulon did the same; his heels clicked as he stood.

"Do comm me, sometimes," Maximilian asked. "And please don't get yourself killed."

There were times he thought he was forgetting those aspects of her that he could not see in their child. Perhaps it saddened him a touch, but, truth be told, Zev had inherited everything that was admirable in her. He felt a sudden urge to bless his son, to place a hand on his head and ask the Goddess to favor him. It was something they had not done since before Zev's mother had died. A skeptical voice told him that it would embarrass the young man, and that, perhaps, he had forgotten how.

"Of course, sir," Zev replied.

Maximilian pulled him into a hug. He was surprised to find that he was trying not to cry. And then he was surprised to find that he had stopped trying.

...


	2. II: Alba

_Interludia.  
_

_II. Alba._

(Axxila, _ca_. 4 ABY.)

There is much to be said for the hour before dawn.

First birdsong had always marked the opening of Miryam's favorite time of day. She savored the breeze through her open window, refreshing even through the most sweltering of summers. Now, during springtime, the same benevolent wind jostled the indigo blossoms of their Mandusari spice tree against the screen. She enjoyed the quiet—inasmuch as an ecumenopolis is ever truly quiet—while contemplating billows of cloud turned fiery by the sun's first alchemical touch.

She knew that, in the following week, this would be the only hour to gather herself up. With sunrise the routines of life have a nasty habit of beginning again. It was at dawn that she missed him the most, when the memory of him so recently impressed on eyes and ears and willing flesh would almost translate to physical pain. By breakfast-time her throat would have inexorably tightened around a knot of loss. Sometimes her disoriented antejentacular self took days to remember that two places—not three—should be set; she would be left staring into an empty cup brittle and white as her happiness. Only in the hour before dawn there would still be some modicum of relief.

Somehow, she was convinced it would be even harder this time.

That week, however, had not yet properly started. In the meantime, she could spare one glance at the spice tree, and another at her husband. The soft thud of his heart was ringing under her ear as she breathed in its scent; one warm arm draped over her, gentle even in sleep.

She could hold to him like this for hours. She only had until dawn.

The horizon had matured from cerulean to coral by the time she felt his breathing change. Shifting to one elbow to watch him wake, she smiled involuntarily as his eyes opened, fixing a bemusedly sleepy gaze on her.

"Morning, my love," she whispered. And let us delight in it, for it is all we have.

"'S nearly dawn!" Kicking his feet free of the sheets, he mumbled half-heartedly, "Why didn't you wake me up?"

I was too busy seeking the strength I need to say goodbye? I can never bear to let you go a moment before I must? It was a comfort to see your face free from worry for once? Well, not all truths were so complicated. "You know I love watching you sleep," she admitted.

He planted a kiss on the top of her head, then crawled over her and initiated a reconnaissance for the scattered elements of his uniform. Throwing her dressing gown over her shoulders, she sat atop the quilt and watched him. Daybreak conceals the ugliness that might glare in noonday sun; he seemed, for the moment, unimaginably beautiful. This, Miryam thought, must be the pinnacle of marital love: to consider handsome the man who is delving for socks underneath one's bed.

"I'm sorry Shira had to leave last night, but you know how difficult her boss is."

"Why she puts up with him I'll never know. But the work makes her happy. She seems so much—I don't know—so much brighter than last time I was here. She smiles more."

Undershirt, shirt, trousers, tunic. Socks, boots, cap, and gloves. Time flies. He was about to do up the shoulder-buttons of his tunic. She batted his hands away; it would be ten months before she could touch him again. Buttons fastened, he held her close. First light broke the horizon, so white that it could blind. She did not look away; better his eyes were shielded than hers.

"Farewell, then, darling," he said, "for the last time."

Miryam's heart contracted, and melted, and cracked. She was momentarily struck dumb and could only put one palm against his face and try, for the thousandth time, to memorize the topography of temple, cheekbone, and chin. Stating her disquieting premonitions had never before been an option; to give something voice was to allow it that much more purchase on reality. "You can't... you don't mean you've felt it too?" she whispered.

"What?" he asked, with a confused chuckle behind his voice that told her everything she needed to know: he suffered no such forebodings as she. Whether that should have inspired relief or further concern, Miryam could not say. One hand was resting on the small of her back. Its warmth and weight seemed so real, so present, that for a second she questioned how he could ever die.

Once, when they had both been young, she had also wondered if he could ever leave her alone.

"I was going to make this a surprise, but my nerve failed me. I guess I can't keep a secret, or maybe I didn't want to give you a heart attack come winter."

"Firmus?"

"My commission is up, and I'm not renewing it. This will be my last tour."

He had rendered her speechless for the second time since 0530. Fragments of ideas such as 'What about your promotion?' and 'But you love the _Ex_' floated through her mind, half-seen but somehow managing to elude capture. Thankfully, he started talking again.

"This hasn't been fair to you. I miss you, Miryam. I want to be with you, and with Shira. I mean, you know…" He had always blushed so readily. "I've never really been there for her."

She smiled. "Firmus, that's ridiculous. I know you wanted to. _She_ knows you wanted to. . ."

"But was I?"

Well, no. No, but.

There was true sadness in his eyes now; it made her feel proud, and unbearably weary. "She's grown, darling. She has a diploma and a job. She's fully convinced she's going to fix every problem she touches. Soon enough she might kids of her own, who knows? And I've already missed all that. And… and I just don't think I can do it any more. It's all too much."

She knew he meant more than long tours of duty that kept the family apart. The nastier sides of this war were among a handful of secrets he kept even from her.

A semicircle of sun was visible now, red and raw, casting his face in shadow. Her hand still rested on his cheek; it was only too simple to guide his mouth down to hers and pretend nothing was wrong. "Well, then," she said, putting on a face brave enough to last her to the front door, "farewell. For the last time."

_..._

_finis ef 7.15.2013_

(The _Star Wars_ franchise, as I am only too painfully aware, is not mine. Criticism is welcomed.)


End file.
